As the primary laundry-doer around here, I find myself constantly pondering the following: WHERE ARE ALL THE SOCKS?
We are a family of six, and we own no less than a billion pairs of socks. How many of those pairs are currently in their natural, paired-up state, happily living their sock lives, balled together neatly in a sock drawer? Maybe four? Out of 1 billion pairs of socks, there are maybe four pairs of matched socks in this entire house. The rest of them are haphazardly strewn about EVERYWHERE. No matter where you look in this house, there’s at least a 50 percent chance that you’ll find a sock. Just one. Because there are never two together. EVER. If I wasn’t in charge of buying socks for all the people in this house, I wouldn’t believe that they were even purchased as a matched pair. Because once they enter this house, their chances of remaining as a “pair” of socks reduces to absolute zero.
I find random socks everywhere in this house. Everywhere. Every. Where. Under the bed? Of course. In between couch cushions? Obviously. In the bathroom? Yup. Balled up under the coffee table? Only makes sense. ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER? At least four times this week. Outside in the backyard? Odds are good. Resting peacefully on the ground under the peonies on the front porch? Absolutely. Do you know where I don’t find socks? In the hamper. Never in the hamper. And no matter where you find a sock around here, there’s only ever one. The other one is gone. Forever. You’d think that it would turn up eventually, but you would be dead wrong. It’s like it never even existed at all. If you’re like me and you (foolishly) believe that socks do not just disappear from earth, and so you save their lonely mates — positive beyond the shadow of a doubt that you’ll find its mate one of these days and you’ll be able to reunite them in a happy little ball — then you end up with this…
Those are just the lost socks that I found TODAY.
Now, let’s please take a moment to recognize the owners of these various socks. That one there, that belongs to the 8-year-old. That little one over there, that’s the 2-year old’s precious little foot cover. The black one down there, that’s the 7-year old’s. The one with hearts, the 4-year old is the owner of that one. And the big one? The one that looks like it could fit a grown man? That one belongs to my husband. Because even a grown-ass man cannot keep track of his socks. BECAUSE WHY WOULD HE?
How does this happen? HOW? I mean, is it that sometimes when you’re walking around, a sock just falls off of your foot, and you don’t notice — or you don’t care? I’m not saying that that couldn’t happen. It’s just that is has never happened to me, and it seems pretty fucking impossible for a person to lose a sock off of only one of their feet and that they then just continue on with their day like – “Oh, I put a sock on each foot this morning, but that was really just to hedge my bets in case one fell off, because my ultimate goal was to end the day with just one sock. And I nailed it.” I refuse to believe that any sane person lives their life that way.
Next let us notice whose socks are not included in this sadly impressive pile of single, lonely socks. MINE. None of those socks are mine. Not one of those poor, partner-less socks belongs to me. Why? Because I’m not the type of asshole who loses one of every sock they own. When I take my socks off, I (purposefully) take them off of both of my feet at the same time and then (wait for it…this is the best part), I place them both in the same place (usually the hamper), thereby assuring that they will be washed together and returned (together) to my sock drawer so that we can lather, rinse, repeat the process, and I always know where my socks are. I mean, is that really so hard?
I don’t even know what my point is here. Except that I don’t know where any of the sock partners are, and I am the only one bothered by this. Next maybe we should discuss how I am the only person in this house who knows how to plug in the iPads.
What I do know is that when I die, my family is really going to miss me when their iPads run out of batteries and they have cold feet.
 Honest to God; I counted. OK, maybe I am exaggerating. But we do own a lot of socks.
 And there is a 100 percent chance that it will be dirty.
 OK, so I know that absolute zero is a (really cold) temperature and not something a sock can be, but I just liked the way “absolute zero” sounded better than “zero.” It adds emphasis, I think. I just don’t want you all thinking that I don’t know that absolute zero is the lowest temperature that is theoretically possible. Because I do. I also know where all my socks are. Absolute sock. (That’s not a thing).
 Always dirty.
 In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit here that the 8-year-old actually purposely doesn’t wear socks that match. But because I am an anal-retentive sucker who needs order and symmetry and for socks to be paired with their motherfucking partner, I still struggle with just giving her a pile of random socks. I guess that part is on me.
 The answer is yes, it is apparently that hard. Except that it’s not. It can’t be. I mean, I can successfully do it, and I recently told my husband that 49 is less than 45, and in that moment, I meant it.
 Honest to God; I am the only one. Out of six people, I am the only person capable of taking a plug and placing it into the iPad port, thereby causing the battery to charge. I’m a real fucking miracle worker.
 Or, more likely, when I am (voluntarily) committed to the looney bin.